Unemployed In Greenland

So Monday was my birthday. 37. An unmonumental  age to reach, but I had been looking forward to it none-the-less with the ridiculous expectation that I might do something during the day, anything really, that didn't involve urine-soaked laundry, pet poop or dishes. I had actually envisioned myself scooting off to a coffee shop, perhaps with my precious baby in tow (him sleeping contentedly, of course) to read and sip tea for a bit. I love my life. I really do! It's a good, full, rich life and I wouldn't trade it for anything ...  except maybe 2 hours in Starbucks flanked by Earl Grey and James Herriot. I am only human.

 Anyway, the dream was not to be. Last week Phil nonchalantly mentioned that he'd like to spend a few days in South Carolina helping his brother with his political campaign. Se la vie. I was surprised, then, on Monday morning when I didn't feel altogether bummed. Andrew and Elsbeth came running up to me first thing shouting "Happy Birthday!" ... and there was cake! Big cake. Phil and the kids had made me a giant chocolate cake with vanilla frosting to keep me company and it looked mighty fine. Baby on my hip and kindergartner swirling around my ankles before 7 in the morning , I was unexpectedly chipper.  Christian is such a sweet, easy guy, and Els and I would certainly find something festive to do this morning.  It was going to be a great day.

It was while searching for caffeine and something to feed the kids that it hit me. Crapola. Today is the Farmer Boy breakfast in Andrew's 3rd grade class and we're signed up to provide pancake batter.  Let's be clear that PHIL signed us up for pancake batter. Not napkins. Not a carton of milk. Homemade pancake batter. Never mind that Mr. Mobley is now too busy watching Madame Secretary and working out on the elliptical to mix up the batter he was so eager to offer.  I start pulling things out of cabinets, muttering a little under my breath.  I put Christian down for a nap, do a little mixing, some dog-feeding, some jacket-finding, and I manage to have an absurdly large bowl of batter ready to go at departure time. Phil's plan was to drop Andrew off at school  (Monday is Elsbeth's day at home) and then to take off for Columbia.

 I was seeing Andrew off to the car, his skinny arms wrapped around the 20 pound bowl , when Christian woke up, Elsbeth asked to color, and the phone rang. It's the vet and she's willing to see my hens! This is wonderful news since I lost one of my girls not long ago to what I guessed was an internal parasite, and I was concerned that the rest of my flock had begun losing weight. So I scooped up Christian, awake and ready for his breakfast, held the phone between my shoulder and cheek waiting to talk to the receptionist, and Elsbeth runs up to me. "Daddy says you need to come downstairs right now." This could not be good. As I round the corner to the kitchen, I see a trail of ivory-colored droplets leading to the back door. Apparently as soon as the menfolk bumped over the driveway, a magnificent tidal wave of batter engulfed Andrew. He was now shivering on the back porch on the brink of tears, looking as though he'd been tempura-ed. Baby hanging on for the ride, phone still pressed to my cheek, I pull Andrew inside and have him stand on the mat while I begin peeling his soaked sweatshirt off with my free hand.

"The lid you gave us didn't work at all."

"Yeah, I see that."

Andrew starts crying and Phil's letting me know what a terrible idea it was to send the mix in that particular vessel when the vet's office clicks in.

 "Dr. Mendendahl would like you to come in this morning with 2 of your hens. Will that work?"

 "Yes, sure, I can make that happen."

 "Which two hens are you bringing in?"

 "Mom, I don't have another school shirt! I'm going to miss art!"

 "Ummm, how about Isabelle and, Mary." 

"Christy, what in the world are we going to put all this batter in?  And how are we going to pour it out of this bowl?  It's all over my car, by the way."

 "Ma'am, we can't find you name anywhere in our system. You say you've been here before?"

 "Yes, many times. It's M-O-B-L-E-Y."

 "Mommy, mommy, why are you talking about Mary? Mommy, what's happening with Mary? Mommy, who are you talking to?  Why did you say Mary?"

 "Hon, why don't we put it in this canister thing with a lid? I'm talking to the vet, Els. Andrew, here are some pants, wear this shirt, and I think your shoes are alright. You won't miss all of art."

 "Oh, OK Ma'am, we've found you. So we'll see you shortly."

 Somewhere in the middle of all this, I hear "Tainted Love" playing in the back of my mind.

Glory be, the canister thing worked. Andrew and Phil set out once again, and now all I've got to do is catch a couple of chickens, put them in a dog crate, and take them along with my 5-year-old and 3-month-old to the veterinarian's office. No problem.

Here's my circus in the waiting room at Value Vet

The vet visit went comparatively smoothly, I'm happy to report, and we got to feel like celebrities for a few minutes.  All the vet techs came in to see Mary and Isabelle, holding them and having their pictures made with them.  Then I got a lesson in how to wedge a syringe into a chicken's beak to give them medicine.  Useful skill as it turns out.  

When Andrew got home from school, he and I chased down hen after hen, one of us holding them while the other dosed them with a Panacur suspension, then we shouted out the names to Elsbeth who checked them off a list.  The family that deworms together, stays together.

My little secretary preparing to record dosed hens 

Farm vet in the making ... be still my heart

Somewhere between the vet's office and chasing the rest of the flock down, I get a text from Phil:

"Taking a lunch break.  This is really fun!"

No bitterness.

In a later conversation, Phil shares that he is having such a blast, he has decided he's definitely running for political office one day.  Now let's just get one thing straight right here and now.  I may not be very powerful - clearly I control very little of my own life - but I'm pretty sure I could bring that dream down in flames without even trying hard.  Even now I can see it on the evening news, and it brings a wistful smile to my face ...

"The wife of senate hopeful Philip Mobley is at it again.  With her signature lavender dreadlocks now reaching waist-length, Christina Mobley was caught earlier today breaking into one of the infamous hog farms in Smithfield, Virginia where she, along with her 3 bare-footed children,  released 10,000 pigs into the wild..."

Let's see how you like that Republican Party.

So here's to 37!  May it continue to be ... interesting.